Practical Magic
by Embrassez-moi
Summary: I hope I never fall in love," she breathed... "I thought you never wanted to fall in love,"... "That's the point. The guy I dreamed up doesn't exist. And if he doesn't exist, I can never die of a broken heart."


**Practical Magic**

****_Dearest Jilli,_

_          Sometimes I feel there is a hole inside of me. An emptiness that at times seems to burn. I think that if you lifted my heart to your ear, you could hear the ocean. And the moon tonight, there is a circle around it; a sign of trouble not far behind. I have this dream about being whole. Of not going to sleep at night wanting… but, still sometimes, when the wind is warm or the crickets sing, I dream of a love that even time would lie down and be still for. I just want someone to love me. I want to be seen. I don't know. Maybe I've had my happiness. I don't want to believe it, but… sometimes I think… there is no man. Only that moon…_

_          Love always…_

_          Hermione Granger_

          Hermione clicked her tongue and blew on the distinguished candle, lighting it. It was a useful trick that the Aunts had taught her. She clicked her tongue again, and waited for Narcissi, her owl, to come to her. In a matter of seconds, there was a fluttering of wings, as Narcissi gently settled herself on Hermione's bedpost. "Take this to Jilli-Bean, will you?" Narcissi hooted solemnly, as if she knew what the letter was about. "Thanks."

          She walked slowly towards the window seat and rested her arms upon the sill. Ever since her parents had died, when she was six, the Aunts, as they were called, told her everything. She was not, in fact, Muggle-born. She came from a long and distinguished line of witches, some of the greatest of all time. For example, she was a descendant of Rowena Ravenclaw herself. So ever since she had been living with the Aunts, she found out many startling things about her family and past. Her parents, for instance, were not Muggles. Well, her mother wasn't, at least. Her father was. Hermione's real last name was not Granger, but Owens. And set upon all the Owens women's lovers was a curse. A curse that every Owens woman knew. When an Owens woman heard the sound of the Death-Watch Beetle, the man she loved was doomed to die.

          When her father died, Hermione and her sister, Jillian, were sent to live with the Aunts. "In this house, we eat chocolate cake for breakfast, and we never bother with silly little things like bedtime or brushing our teeth." Hermione asked many questions.

          "You know girls, the only Curse in this family," said Aunt Jet, "is sitting at the end of the table." The girls looked. "That's right. Your Aunt Fanny."

          "Mummy died of a broken heart, didn't she?" she asked quietly at tea-time.

          "Yes, my dear child. She did," said Aunt Fanny.

          "I hope I never fall in love," she breathed.

          That was why when Hermione was just a little girl; she cast a spell upon herself, so that she would never love. "He will hear my call a mile away," she whispered, picking a white rose pedal and dropping it into the large wooden bowl she was carrying. "He will whistle to my favorite song," she said, pulling another. "He has to have white blonde hair," she said, one more. "Startling blue-grey eyes." She plucked another. "He's miraculously kind," she said, repeating the process.

          Then Jillian spoke. "I thought you never wanted to fall in love."

          "That's the point," she had said. "The guy I dreamed up doesn't exist. And if he doesn't exist, I'll never die of a broken heart."

          Little did Hermione know as she pulled away from the window, that her owl had sensed that she needed to let someone other than her sister know how she was feeling. Narcissi had flown around for a while, trying to find an open window. She flew two times around the castle before she found one, and it happened to be that of a boy who met all of the qualifications Hermione had made when she was seven, ten years ago.

**Disclaimer:** Je ne possède pas une chose (I do not own a thing). J.K. Rowling owns everything. Except the plot.


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